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"14 Inn the last free trail is a prim, fenced lane 
And our graves groiv iveeds through forgetful 
Mays, 

Richer and statelier then you'll reign. 

Mother of men whom the world will praise. 

And your sons will love you and sigh for you. 

Labor and battle and die for you. 
But never the fondest will understand 
The way lue have loved you, young, young land." 



SUN AND SADDLE 
LEATHER 



BY 



Charles Badger Clark, Jr. 



ILLUSTRATIONS FROM PHOTOGRAPHS BY 
L. A. HUFFMAN 




BOSTON: RICHARD G. BADGER 

TORONTO: THE COPP CLARK CO., LIMITED 



Copyright, 1915 and 191 7, by Charles Badger Clark, Jr. 



All Rights Reserved 






JUL 18 1917 

Made in the United States of America 



The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A. 



vOci.A470294 

/ , 



TO MY FATHER, 

who, in his long life^ has seldom been 
conscious of a mans rough exterior, 
or unconscious of his obscurest virtue. 



A FEW WORDS FROM THE PUBLISHER 

ABOUT MR. L. A. HUFFMAN, THE 

"WESTERN REPRESENTATIVE" 



Early last fall we were fortunate enough to 
discover Mr. L. A. Huffman of Miles City, Mon- 
tana, the illustrator who in 1878 began to take pho- 
tographs with crude cameras which he made him- 
self. These same photographs were the first of the 
now famous Huffman Pictures comprising nearly 
six thousand historic subjects, beginning with the 
Indians and buffaloes round about Fort Keogh on 
the Yellowstone, where he w^as post photographer in 
General Miles' army in the stirring territorial days. 

Mr. Huffman wrote us a letter, a very breezy one 
for a man sixty-five or one hundred years young. 
He had come across this little book of verse and 
tried to buy it. He wanted only two hundred cop- 
ies at once. Later when we asked him if he would 
be interested in our new edition, he promptly re- 
plied : 

"Sure! I am interested to the extent of about 
five hundred copies. If I had a down-town book 
store instead of this old studio in sagebrush out- 
5 



skirts of the old cow and horse town, I'd easily 
make it a thousand copies, and with the order I'd 
say something very pointedly respecting your selec- 
tion of a sales manager for the short grass country 
where there is, — thanks be! — still room to back away 
and call a man a liar. I have read some western 
verse these last forty years. Here and there you 
will find a 'twelver,' then, dilution a-plenty! 

"Only yesterday I read aloud 'The Old Cow 
Man' to an old cow man, and when I had finished 
the stanza: 

'When my old soul hunts range and rest 

Beyond the last divide. 
Just plant me in some stretch of West 

That's sunny, lone, and wide. 
Let cattle rub my tombstone down 

And coyotes mourn their kin, 
Let hawses paw and tromp the moun' 

But don't you fence it in.' 

"He said in a choky voice and with more than a 

hint of moisture in his eyes, 'Who in H is this 

kid Clark, anyway?' and he coughed up three bones 
for copies of the book. Later by phone he ordered 
three more copies and added, 'You can break me if 
there's a dead poem in it. I read the hull twenty- 
two. I don't know how Clark knowxd, but he 
knows! 

Mr. Huffman is handling the sale of Sun and 
Saddle Leather in Montana and the adjacent states. 
6 



CONTENTS 

Page 

Ridin' 13 

The Song of the Leather 15 

A Bad Half Hour 17 

From Town 19 

A Cowboy's Prayer 21 

The Christmas Trail 23 

A Border Affair 26 

The Bunk-House Orchestra 28 

The Outlaw 30 

The Legend of Boastful Bill 32 

The Tied Maverick 35 

A Roundup Lullaby 37 

The Trail 0' Love 39 

Bachin' 41 

The Glory Trail 43 

Bacon 46 

The Lost Pardner 47 

7 



CONTENTS 

Page 

God's Reserves 49 

The Married Man 51 

The Old Cow Man 54 

The Plainsmen 57 

The Westerner 59 



8 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 

When the last free trail is a prim, fenced lane 
And our graves grow weeds through forgetful 
Mays, 

Richer and statelier then you II reign. 

Mother of men whom the world will praise. 

And your sons will love you and sigh for you. 

Labor and battle and die for you. 

But never the fondest will understand 

The way we have loved you, young, young land. 

— Frontispiece. 



When my feet is in the stirrups 

And my hawse is on the bust. . . .14 

There's a time to be slow and a time to be 

quick. . . . . . . .16 

We have gathered fightin pointers from the 

famous bronco steed. . . . .20 

The taut ropes sing like a banjo string 

And the latigoes creak and strain. . . 30 

/ wait to hear him ridin up behind. . . 48 

There's land where yet no ditchers dig 

Nor cranks experiment; 
It's only lovely, free and big 

And isnt worth a cent. . . . .54 

Born of a free, world-wandering race 

Little we yearned o'er an oft-turned sod. 58 



SUN AND SADDLE LEATHER 



RIDIN' 

There Is some that likes the city — 

Grass that's curried smooth and green, 
Theaytres and stranglin' collars, 

Wagons run by gasoline — 
But for me it's hawse and saddle 

Every day without a change. 
And a desert sun a-blazin' 

On a hundred miles of range. 

Just a-ridiuj a-ridin — 

Desert ripplin in the sun. 

Mountains blue along the skyline — 
/ dont envy anyone 

When I'm ridin. 

When my feet is in the stirrups 

And my hawse is on the bust, 
With his hoofs a-flashin' lightnin' 

From a cloud of golden dust. 
And the bawlin' of the cattle 

Is a-comin' dow^n the wind 
Then a finer life than ridin' 

Would be mighty hard to find. 

Just a-ridin J a-ridin — 
Splittin long cracks through the air^ 
Stirrin up a baby cyclone, 
Rippin up the prickly pear 
As I'm ridin\ 

n 



I don't need no art exhibits 

When the sunset does her best, 
Paintin' everlastin' glory 

On the mountains to the west, 
And your opery looks foolish 

When the night-bird starts his tune 
And the desert's silver mounted 

By the touches of the moon. 

Just a-ridin, a-ridin\ 

Who kin envy kings and czars 
When the coyotes down the valley 

Are a-singin to the stars. 
If he's ridinf 

When my earthly trail is ended 

And my final bacon curled 
And the last great roundup's finished 

At the Home Ranch oi the world 
I don't want no harps nor haloes, 

Robes nor other dressed up things — 
Let me ride the starry ranges 

On a pinto hawse with wings! 

Just a-ridin J a-ridin — 

Nothin rd like half so well 

As a-roundin up the sinners 

That have wandered out of Hell, 
And a-ridin\ 



H 




^ ^ 



THE SONG OF THE LEATHER 

When my trail stretches out to the edge of the sky 
Through the desert so empty and bright, 

When I'm watchin' the miles as they go crawlin' by 
And a-hopin' I'll get there by night, 

Then my hawse never speaks through the long sunny 
day, 
But my saddle he sings in his creaky old way: 

"Easy — easy — easy — 

For a temperit pace aint a crime. 
Let your mount hit it steady, but give him his ease. 
For the sun hammers hard and there's never a breeze. 

We kin get there in plenty of time.'' 

When I'm after some critter that's hit the high lope, 

And a-spurrin' my hawse till he flies, 
When I'm watchin' the chances for throwin' my 
rope 
And a-winkin' the sweat from my eyes. 
Then the leathers they squeal with the lunge and the 
swing 
And I work to the livelier tune that they sing: 

''Reach 'imf reach 'imf reach 'imf 
If you lather your hawse to the heel! 

There's a time to be slow and a time to be quick; 

Never mind if it's rough and the bushes are thick — 
Pull your hat down and fling in the steel!" 

15 



When I've rustled all day till I'm achin' for rest 
And I'm ordered a night-guard to ride, 

With the tired little moon hangin' low in the west 
And my sleepiness fightin' my pride, 

Then I nod and I blink at the dark herd below 
And the saddle he sings as my hawse paces slow: 

''Sleepy — sleepy — sleepy — 
We was ordered a close watch to keep. 

But ril sing you a song in a drowsy old key; 

All the world is a-snoozin so why shouldn't wef 
Go to sleep, pardner mine, go to sleep/' 



l6 




There's a time to be sloiv and a time to he quick.' 



A BAD HALF HOUR 

Wonder why I feel so restless; 

Moon is shinin' still and bright, 
Cattle all is restin' easy, 

But I just kaint sleep tonight. 
Ain't no cactus in my blankets, 

Don't know why they feel so hard — 
'Less it's Warblin' Jim a-singin' 

"Annie Laurie" out on guard. 

"Annie Laurie" — wish he'd quit it! 

Couldn't sleep now if I tried. 
Makes the night seem big and lonesome, 

And my throat feels sore inside. 
How my Annie used to sing it! 

And it sounded good and gay 
Nights I drove her home from dances 

When the east was turnin' gray. 

Yes, "her brow was like the snowdrift" 

And her eyes like quiet streams, 
"And her face" — I still kin see it 

Much too frequent in my dreams; 
And her hand was soft and trembly 

That night underneath the tree, 
When I couldn't help but tell her 

She was "all the world to me." 



17 



But her folks said I was "shif less," 

"Wild," "unsettled," — they was right, 
For I leaned to punchin' cattle 

And I'm at it still tonight. 
And she married young Doc Wilkins — 

Oh my Lord! but that was hard! 
Wish that fool would quit his singin' 

"Annie Laurie" out on guard! 

Oh, I just kaint stand it thinkin' 

Of the things that happened then. 
Good old times, and all apast me! 

Never seem to come again — 
My turn? Sure. I'll come a-runnin*. 

Warm me up some coffee, pard — 
But I'll stop that Jim from singin' 

"Annie Laurie" out on guard. 



i8 



FROM TOWN 

We're the children of the open and we hate the 
haunts o' men, 
But we had to come to town to get the mail. 
And we're ridin' home at daybreak — 'cause the air 
is cooler then — 
All 'cept one of us that stopped behind in jail. 
Shorty's nose won't bear paradin', Bill's off eye is 
darkly fadin', 
All our toilets show a touch of disarray, 
For we found that city life is a constant round of 
strife 
And we ain't the breed for shyin' from a fray. 

Chant your warwhoop, pardners dear, while the 
east turns pale with fear 
And the chaparral is tremblin' all aroun' 
For we're wicked to the marxer; we're a midnight 
dream of terror 
When we're ridin' up the rocky trail from town! 

We acquired our hasty temper from our friend, 
the centipede. 
From the rattlesnake we learnt to guard our 
rights. 
We have gathered fightin' pointers from the famous 
bronco steed 
And the bobcat teached us reppertee that bites. 
So when some high-collared herrin' jeered the garb 
that I was wearin' 
19 



'Twas't long till we had got where talkin' ends, 

And he et his illbred chat, with a sauce of derby hat. 

While my merry pardners entertained his friends. 

Sing 'er out, my buckeroos! Let the desert hear the 
news. 
Tell the stars the way we rubbed the haughty 
down. 
We're the fiercest wolves a-prowlin' and it's just 
our night for howlin' 
When we're ridin' up the rocky trail from town. 

Since the days that Lot and Abram split the Jordan 
range in halves, 
Just to fix it so their punchers wouldn't fight. 
Since old Jacob skinned his dad-in-law for six years' 
crop of calves 
And then hit the trail for Canaan in the night, 
There has been a taste for battle 'mong the men 
that follow cattle 
And a love of doin' things that's wild and strange. 
And the warmth of Laban's words when he missed 
his speckled herds 
Still is useful in the language of the range. 

Sing 'er out, my bold coyotes! leather fists and 
leather throats. 
For we wear the brand of Ishm'el like a crown. 
We're the sons o' desolation, we're the outlaws of 
creation — 
Ee — yow! a-ridin' up the rocky trail from town! 
20 




•<^ 



>^ 



A COWBOY'S PRAYER 

{Written for Mother) 

Oh Lord. I've never lived where churches grow. 

I love creation better as it stood 
That day You finished it so long ago 

And looked upon Your work and called it good. 
I know that others find You in the light 

That's sifted down through tinted window panes, 
And yet I seem to feel You near tonight 

In this dim, quiet starlight on the plains. 

I thank You, Lord, that I am placed so well. 

That You have made my freedom so complete; 
That I'm no slave of whistle, clock or bell. 

Nor weak-eyed prisoner of wall and street. 
Just let me live my life as I've begun 

And give m€ work that's open to the sky; 
Make me a pardner of the wind and sun, 

And I won't ask a life that's soft or high. 

Let me be easy on the man that's down; 

Let me be square and generous with all. 
I'm careless sometimes. Lord, when I'm in town. 

But never let 'em say I'm mean or small! 
Make me as big and open as the plains. 

As honest as the hawse between my knees. 
Clean as the wind that blows behind the rains, 

Free as the hawk that circles down the breeze! 
21 



Forgive me, Lord, If sometimes I forget. 

You know about the reasons that are hid. 
You understand the things that gall and fret; 

You know me better than my mother did. 
Just keep an eye on all that's done and said 

And right me, sometimes, when I turn aside, 
And guide me on the long, dim trail ahead 

That stretches upward toward the Great Divide. 



22 



THE CHRISTMAS TRAIL 

The wind is blowin' cold down the mountain tips 
of snow 
And 'cross the ranges layin' brown and dead; 
It's cryin' through the valley trees that wear the 
mistletoe 
And mournin' with the gray clouds overhead. 
Yet it's sweet with the beat of my little hawse's feet 

And I whistle like the air was warm and blue, 
For I'm ridin' up the Christmas trail to you, 
Old folks, 
I'm a-ridin' up the Christmas trail to you. 

Oh, mebbe it was good when the whinny of the 
Spring 
Had wheedled me to hoppin' of the bars. 
And livin' in the shadow of a sailin' buzzard's wing 

And sleepin' underneath a roof of stars. 
But the bright campfire light only dances for a 
night, 
While the home-fire burns forever clear and true, 
So 'round the year I circle back to you, 
Old folks, 
'Round the rovin' year I circle back to you. 



23 



Oh, mebbe It was good when the reckless Summer 
sun 
Had shot a charge of fire through my veins, 
And I milled around the whiskey and the fightin' 
and the fun 
'Mong the other mav'ricks drifted from the 
plains. 
Ay! .the pot bubbled hot, while you reckoned I'd 
forgot, 
And the devil smacked the young blood In his 
stew. 
Yet I'm lovin' every mile that's nearer you. 
Good folks, 
Lovin' every blessed mile that's nearer you. 

Oh, mebbe it was good at the roundup in the Fall 
When the clouds of bawlin' dust before us ran, 
And the pride of rope and saddle was a-drivin' of 
us all 
To a stretch of nerve and muscle, man and man. 
But the pride sort of died when the man got weary 
eyed ; 
'Twas a sleepy boy that rode the night-guard 
through, 
And he dreamed himself along a trail to you, 
Old folks. 
Dreamed himself along a happy trail to you. 



24 



The coyote's Winter howl cuts the dusk behind the 
hill, 
But the ranch's shinin' window I kin see, 
And though I don't deserve it and, I reckon, never 
will. 
There'll be room beside the fire kep' for me. 
Skimp my plate 'cause I'm late. Let me hit the old 
kid gait. 
For tonight I'm stumblin' tired of the new 
And I'm ridin' up the Christmas trail to you, 
Old folks, 
I'm a-ridin' up the Christmas trail to you. 



25 



A BORDER AFFAIR 

Spanish is the lovin' tongue, , 

Soft as music, light as spray. 
'Twas a girl I learnt it from, 

Livin' down Sonora way. 
I don't look much like a lover, 
Yet I say her love words over 

Often when I'm all alone — 

"Mi amor, mi corazon." 

Nights when she knew where I'd ride 

She would listen for my spurs, 
Fling the big door open wide. 

Raise them laughin' eyes of hers 
And my heart would nigh stop beatin' 
When I heard her tender greetin'. 

Whispered soft for me alone — 

"Mi amor! mi corazon!" 

Moonlight in the patio. 

Old Sefiora noddin' near, 
Me and Juana talkin' low 

So the Madre couldn't hear — 
How those hours would go a-flyin' 1 
And too soon I'd hear her sighin' 

In her little sorry tone — 

"Adios, mi corazon!" 



Z6 



But one time I had to fly 

For a foolish gamblin' fight, 
And we said a swift goodbye 

In that black, unlucky night. 
When I'd loosed her arms from clingin' 
With her words the hoofs kep' ringin' 

As I galloped north alone — 

"Adios, mi corazon!" 

Never seen her since that night. 

I kaint cross the Line, you know. 
She was Mex and I was white; 

Like as not it's better so. 
Yet I've always sort of missed her 
Since that last wild night I kissed her, 

Left her heart and lost my own — 

"Adios, mi corazon!" 



27 



THE BUNK-HOUSE ORCHESTRA 

Wrangle up your mouth-harps, drag your banjo out, 
Tune your old guitarra till she twangs right stout. 
For the snow is on the mountains and the wind is 

on the plain, 
But we'll cut the chimney's moanin' with a livelier 

refrain. 

Shtnin 'dohe fireplace, shadows on the wall 



{See old Shorty's frwlous toes a-twitchin at the 

call:) 
It's the best grand high that there is within the 

law 
When seven jolly punchers tackle "Turkey in the 

Straw!' 

Freezy was the day's ride, lengthy was the trail, 
Ev'ry steer was haughty with a high arched tail, 
But we held 'em and we shoved 'em, for our longin' 

hearts were tried 
By a yearnin' for tobacker and our dear fireside. 

Swing ' er into stop-time, don't you let ' er droop! 
{YouU'e about as tuneful as a coyote with the 

croup!) 
Ay, the cold wind bit when we drifted down the 

draw. 
But we drifted on to comfort and to ''Turkey in 

the Straw." 

28 



Snarlin' when the rain whipped, cussin' at the 

ford— 
Ev'ry mile of twenty was a long discord, 
But the night is brimmin' music and its glory is 

complete 
When the eye is razzle-dazzled by the flip o' Shorty's 

feet! 

Snappy for the dance, now, till she up and shoots! 
{Dont he beat the devil's wife for jiggin in 'is 

boots?) 
Shorty got throwed high and we laughed till he 

was raw. 
But tonight he's done forgot it prancin ''Turkey 

in the Straw." 

Rainy dark or firelight, bacon rind or pie, 
Livin' is a luxury that don't come high; 
Oh, be happy and onruly while our years and luck 

allow. 
For we all must die or marry less than forty years 

from now! 

Lively on the last turn! lope 'er to the death! 

{Reddy's soul is willin but he's gettin short o' 
breath.) 

Ay, the storm wind sings and old trouble sucks 
his paw 

When we have an hour of firelight set to ''Tur- 
key in the Straw." 
29 



THE OUTLAW 

When my rope takes hold on a two-year-old, 

By the foot or the neck or the horn, 
He kin plunge and fight till his eyes go white 

But I'll throw him as sure as you're born. 
Though the taut ropes sing like a banjo string 

And the latigoes creak and strain. 
Yet I got no fear of an outlaw steer 

And I'll tumble him on the plain. 

For a man is a man, hut a steer is a beast. 

And the man is the boss of the herd. 
And each of the bunch, from the biggest to 

least. 
Must come down when he says the word. 

When my leg swings 'cross on an outlaw hawse 

And my spurs clinch into his hide. 
He kin r'ar and pitch over hill and ditch, 

But wherever he goes I'll ride. 
Let 'im spin and flop like a crazy top 

Or flit like a wind-whipped smoke, 
But he'll know the feel of my rowelled heel 

Till he's happy to own he's broke. 

For a man is a man and a hawse is a brute. 
And the hawse may be prince of his clan 

But he'll bow to the bit and the steel-shod boot 
And own that his boss is the man. 
30 




^ 









When the devil at rest underneath my vest 

Gets up and begins to paw 
And my hot tongue strains at its bridle reins, 

Then I tackle the real outlaw. 
When I get plumb riled and my sense goes wild 

And my temper is fractious growed, 
If he'll hump his neck just a triflin' speck, 

Then it's dollars to dimes I'm throwed. 

For a man is a man, hut he's partly a beast. 

He kin brag till he makes you deaf. 
But the one lone brute, from the west to the 
east. 

That he kaint quite break is himse'f. 



31 



THE LEGEND OF BOASTFUL BILL 

At a roundup on the Gily, 

One sweet mornin' long ago, 
Ten of us was throwed right freely 

By a hawse from Idaho. 
And we thought he'd go a-beggin' 

For a man to break his pride 
Till, a-hitchin' up one leggin. 

Boastful Bill cut loose and cried — 

'Tm a onry proposition for to hurt; 

I fulfill my earthly mission with a quirt; 
I kin ride the highest liver 
'Tiveen the Gulf and Powder River, 

And ril break this thing as easy as Fd 
firtr 

So Bill climbed the Northern Fury 

And they mangled up the air 
Till a native of Missouri 

Would have owned his brag was fair. 
Though the plunges kep' him reelin' 

And the wind it flapped his shirt, 
Loud above the hawse's squealin' 

We could hear our friend assert 

"I'm the one to take such rakins as a joke. 
Sojue one hand me up the makins of a 
smoke! 

32 



If you think my fame needs bright'nin 
W'y, ril rope a streak of lightnin 
And ril cinch 'im up and spur 'im till he's 
broke.'' 

Then one caper of repulsion 

Broke that hawse's back in two. 
Cinches snapped in the convulsion; 

Skyward man and saddle flew. 
Up he mounted, never laggin', 

While we watched him through our tears, 
And his last thin bit of braggin' 

Came a-droppin' to our ears. 

"If youd ever watched my habits very 

close 
You would know I've broke such rabbits 
by the gross. 
I have kep' my talent hidin ; 
I'm too good for earthly ridin 
And I'm off to bust the lightnin s — 
Adiosr 

Years have gone since that ascension. 

Boastful Bill ain't never lit, 
So we reckon that he's wrenchin' 

Some celestial outlaw's bit. 
When the night rain beats our slickers 

And the wind is swift and stout 
And the lightnin' flares and flickers, 

We kin sometimes hear him shout — 
Z3 



"Fm a bronco-tivistin wonder on the fly; 

I'm the ridin son-of-thunder of the sky. 
Hi! you earthlins, shut your winders 
While we're rippin clouds to flinders. 

If this blue-eyed darlin kicks at you, you 
dier 

Stardust on his chaps and saddle, 

Scornful still of jar and jolt, 
He'll come back some day, astraddle 

Of a bald-faced thunderbolt. 
And the thin-skinned generation 

Of that dim and distant day 
Sure will stare with admiration 

When they hear old Boastful say — 

'7 was first, as old rawhiders all confessed. 

Now I'm last of all rough riders , and the 

best. 

Huh! you soft and dainty floaters , 

With your a' ro planes and motors — 

Huh! are you the great grandchildren of 

the West!" 



34 



THE TIED MAVERICK 

Lay on the iron! the tie holds fast 

And my wild record closes. 
This maverick is down at last 

Just roped and tied with roses. 
And one small girl's to blame for it, 
Yet I don't fight with shame for it — 
Lay on the iron; I'm game for it, 
Just roped and tied with roses. 

I loped among the wildest band 

Of saddle-hatin' winners — 
Gay colts that never felt a brand 

And scarred old outlaw sinners. 
The wind was rein and guide to us; 
The world was pasture wide to us 
And our wild name was pride to us — 

High headed bronco sinners! 

So, loose and light we raced and fought 

And every range we tasted. 
But now, since I'm corralled and caught, 

I know them days were wasted. 
From now, the all-day gait for me. 
The trail that's hard but straight for me. 
For down that trail, who'll wait for me ! 

Ay ! them old days were wasted ! 



35 



But though I'm broke, I'll never be 

A saddle-marked old groaner, 
For never w^orthless bronc like me 

Got such a gentle owner. 
There could be colt days glad as mine 
Or outlaw runs as mad as mine 
Or rope-flung falls as bad as mine, 
But never such an owner. 

Lay on the iron, and lay it red! 

I'll take it kind and clever. 
Who wouldn't hold a prouder head 

To wear that mark forever? 
I'll never break and stray from her; 
I'd starve and die away from her. 
Lay on the iron — it's play from her — 

And brand me hers forever! 



36 



A ROUNDUP LULLABY 

Desert blue and silver in the still moonshine, 

Coyote yappin' lazy on the hill, 
Sleepy winks of lightnin' down the far skyline, 

Time for millin' cattle to be still. 

So — Oj now, the lightnin s far aivay. 

The coyote's nothin skeery ; 

He's sin gin to his dearie — 
Hee — ya, tarn ?7ialalleday ! 

Settle down, you cattle, till the mornin. 

Nothin' out the hazy range that you folks need, 
Nothin' we kin see to take your eye. 

Yet we got to watch you or you'd all stampede, 
Plungin' down some 'royo bank to die. 

So — 0, noiv, for still the shadows stay; 

The moon is slow and steady ; 

The sun comes ivhen he's ready. 
Hee — ya, tammalalleday! 

No use runnin out to meet the ?nornin. 

Cows and men are foolish when the light grows dim, 

Dreamin' of a land too far to see. 
There, you dream, is wavin' grass and streams that 
brim 

And it often seems the same to me. 



37 



So — Oj nour, for dreams they never pay. 
The dust it keeps us blinkin. 
We're seven miles from drinkin, 

Hee — ya, tammalalleday! 

But we got to stand it till the mornin. 

Mostly It's a moonlight world our trail winds 
through. 

Kaint see much beyond our saddle horns. 
Always far away is misty silver-blue; 

Always underfoot it's rocks and thorns. 

So — 0, now. It must be this away — 
The lonesome owl a-callin , 
The mournful coyote squallin. 

He e — y a, tarn m alalleday I 

Mockin -birds dons sing until the mornin\ 

Always seein' 'wayoff dreams of silver-blue, 
Always feelin' thorns that slab and sting. 

Yet stampedin' never made a dream come true, 
So I ride around myself and sing. 

So — 0, now, a man has got to stay, 
A-likin or a-hatin. 
But workin on and waitin, 

Hee — ya, tarn malalleday ! 

All of us are waitin for the mornin'. 



38 



THE TRAIL O' LOVE 

My love was swift and slender 

As an antelope at play, 
And her eyes were gray and tender 

As the east at break o' day, 
And I sure was shaky hearted 

And her flower face was pale 
On that silver night we parted, 

When I sang along the trail: 

Forever — forever — 

Oh, moon above the pine. 
Like the matin birds in Springtime, 

I will twitter while you shine. 
Rich as ore with gold a-glowin , 
Sweet as sparklin springs a-flowin. 
Strong as redwoods ever growin. 
So will be this love o' mine, 

I rode across the river 

And beyond the far divide. 
Till the echo of "forever" 

Staggered faint behind and died. 
For the long trail smiled and beckoned 

And the free wind blowed so sweet, 
That life's gayest tune, I reckoned. 

Was my hawse's ringin' feet. 



39 



Fo rever — fo rever — 

Oh, stars J look down and sigh, 
For a poison spring will sparkle 

And the trustin drinker die. 
And a rovin bird will twitter 

And a worthless rock will glitter 
And the maiden s love is bitter 

When the mans is proved a lie. 

Last the rover's circle guldin' 
Brought me where I used to be, 

And I met her, gaily ridin' 
With a smarter man than me. 

Then I raised my dusty cover 

But she didn't see nor hear. 

So I hummed the old tune over, 
Laughin' in my hawse's ear: 

Forever — forever — 

Oh, sun, look down and smile 
If the snowflake specks the desert 

Or the yucca blooms aivhile. 
Ay I what gloom the mountain covers 
Where the driftin cloud shade hovers! 
Ay! the trail o' parted lovers, 

Where "forever' lasts a mile! 



40 



BACHIN' 

Our lives are hid; our trails are strange; 

We're scattered through the West 
In canyon cool, on blistered range 

Or windy mountain crest. 
Wherever Nature drops her ears 

And bares her claws to scratch, 
From Yuma to the north frontiers, 

You'll likely find the bach'. 
You will, 

The shy and sober bach'! 

Our days are sun and storm and mist, 

The same as any life, 
Except that in our trouble list 

We never count a wife. 
Each has a reason why he's lone, 

But keeps it 'neath his hat; 
Or, if he's got to tell some one. 

Confides it to his cat. 
He does. 

Just tells it to his cat. 

We're young or old or slow or fast. 

But all plumb versatyle. 
The mighty bach' that fires the blast 

Kin serve up beans in style. 
The bach' that ropes the plungin' cows 



41 



Kin mix the biscuits true — 
We earn our grub by drippin' brows 
And cook it by 'em too, 

We do, 
We cook it by 'em too. 

We like to breathe unbranded air, 

Be free of foot and mind, 
And go or stay, or sing or swear. 

Whichever we're inclined. 
An appetite, a conscience clear, 

A pipe that's rich and old 
Are loves that always bless and cheer 

And never cry nor scold, 
They don't. 

They never cry nor scold. 

Old Adam bached some ages back 

And smoked his pipe so free, 
A-loafin' in a palm-leaf shack 

Beneath a mango tree. 
He'd best have stuck to bachin' ways, 

And scripture proves the same. 
For Adam's only happy days 

Was 'fore the woman came, 
They was. 

All 'fore the woman came. 



42 



THE GLORY TRAIL 

'Way high up the Mogollons, 

Among the mountain tops, 
A lion cleaned a yearlin's bones 

And licked his thankful chops, 
When on the picture who should ride, 

A-trippin' down a slope, 
But High-Chin Bob, with sinful pride 

And mav'rick-hungry rope. 

"Oh, glory be to me'/ says he, 
"Ajid fame's unfadin flowers! 

All meddlin hands are far away; 

I ride my good top-hawse today 

And Fm top-rope of the Lazy J — 
Hi! kitty cat, you re ours!'' 

That lion licked his paw so brown 

And dreamed soft dreams of veal — 
And then the circlin' loop sung down 

And roped him 'round his meal. 
He yowled quick fury to the world 

Till all the hills yelled back; 
The top-haw^se gave a snort and whirled 

And Bob caught up the slack. 

"Ohj glory be to me," laughs he. 
"We hit the glory trail. 



43 



No human man as I have read 
Darst loop a ragin lions head. 
Nor ever hawse could drag one dead 
Until we told the tale." 

'Way high up the Mogollons 

That top-hawse done his best, 
Through whippin' brush and rattlin' stones, 

From canyon-floor to crest. 
But ever when Bob turned and hoped 

A limp remains to find, 
A red-eyed lion, belly roped 

But healthy, loped behind. 

"Ohj glory be to me,'' grunts he. 

"This glory trail is rough. 
Yet even till the Judgment Morn 
ril keep this dally Wound the horn. 
For never any hero horn 

Could stoop to holler: 'Nuff!"' 

Three suns had rode their circle home 

Beyond the desert's rim. 
And turned their star-herds loose to roam 

The ranges high and dim; 
Yet up and down and 'round and 'cross 

Bob pounded, weak and wan. 
For pride still glued him to his hawse 

And glory drove him on. 



44 



*'0h, glory be to me" sighs he. 

"He kaint be drug to deaths 
But now I know beyond a doubt 
Them heroes I have read about 
Was only fools that stuck it out 

To end of mortal breath.'' 

'Way high up the Mogollons 

A prospect man did swear 
That moon dreams melted down his bones 

And hoisted up his hair: 
A ribby cow-hawse thundered by, 

A lion trailed along, 
A rider, ga'nt but chin on high. 

Yelled out a crazy song. 

"Oh, glory be to mel" cries he, 

"And to my noble noose! 
Oh, stranger, tell my pards below 
I took a r ampin dream in tow. 
And if I never lay him low, 

ril never turn him loose T 



45 



BACON 

You're salty and greasy and smoky as sin 

But of all grub we love you the best. 
You stuck to us closer than nighest of kin 

And helped us win out in the West. 
You froze with us up on the Laramie trail ; 

You sweat with us down at Tucson; 
When Injun was painted and white man was pale 
You nerved us to grip our last chance by the tail 

And load up our Colts and hang on. 

You've sizzled by mountain and mesa and plain 

Over campfires of sagebrush and oak; 
The breezes that blow from the Platte to the main 

Have carried your savory smoke. 
You're friendly to miner or puncher or priest; 

You're as good in December as May; 
You always came in when the fresh meat had ceased 
And the rough course of empire to westward was 
greased 

By the bacon we fried on the way. 

We've said that you weren't fit for white men to eat 

And your virtues we often forget. 
We've called you by names that I darsn't repeat, 

But we love you and swear by you yet. 
Here's to you, old bacon, fat, lean streak and rin'. 

All the westerners join in the toast. 
From mesquite and yucca to sagebrush and pine, 
From Canada dow^n to the Mexican Line, 

From Omaha out to the coast! 

46 



THE LOST PARDNER 

I ride alone and hate the boys I meet. 

Today, some way, their laughin' hurts me so. 
I hate the mockin'-birds in the mesquite — 

And yet I liked 'em just a week ago. 
I hate the steady sun that glares, and glares! 

The bird songs make me sore. 
I seem the only thing on earth that cares 

'Cause Al ain't here no more! 

'Twas just a stumblin' hawse, a tangled spur — 

And, when I raised him up so limp and weak. 
One look before his eyes begun to blur 

And then — the blood that wouldn't let 'im speak! 
And him so strong, and yet so quick he died, 

And after year on year 
When we had always trailed it side by side. 

He went — and left me here! 

We loved each other in the way men do 

And never spoke about it, Al and me, 
But w^e both knoived, and knowin' it so true 

Was more than any woman's kiss could be. 
We knowed — and if the way was smooth or rough, 

The weather shine or pour. 
While I had him the rest seemed good enough — 

But he ain't here no more! 



47 



What is there out beyond the last divide? 

Seems like that country must be cold and dim. 
He'd miss this sunny range he used to ride, 

And he'd miss me, the same as I do him. 
It's no use thinkin' — all I'd think or say 

Could never make it clear. 
Out that dim trail that only leads one way 

He's gone — and left me here! 

The range is empty and the trails are blind, 

And I don't seem but half myself today. 
I wait to hear him ridin' up behind 

And feel his knee rub mine the good old way. 
He's dead — and what that means no man kin tell. 

Some call it "gone before." 
Where? I don't know, but God! I know so well 

That he ain't here no more! 



48 



GOD'S RESERVES 

One time, 'way back where the year marks fade, 
God said: *'I see I must lose my West, 

The prettiest part of the world I made, 
The place where I've always come to rest. 

For the White Man grows till he fights for bread 

And he begs and prays for a chance to spread. 

"Yet I won't give all of my last retreat; 

I'll help him to fight his long trail through, 
But I'll keep some land from his field and street 

The way that it was when the world was new. 
He'll cry for it all, for that's his way, 
And yet he may understand some day." 

And so, from the painted Bad Lands, 'way 
To the sun-beat home of the 'Pache kin, 

God stripped some places to sand and clay 

And dried up the beds where the streams had 
been. 

He marked His reserves with these plain signs 

And stationed His rangers to guard the lines. 

Then the White Man came, as the East growed old, 
And blazed his trail with the wreck of war. 

He riled the rivers to hunt for gold 
And found the stuff he was lookin' for; 

Then he trampled the Injun trails to ruts 

And gashed through the hills with railroad cuts. 
49 



He flung out his barb-wire fences wide 

And plowed up the ground where the grass was 
high. 

He stripped ofE the trees from the mountain side 
And ground out his ore where the streams run by, 

Till last came the cities, with smoke and roar, 

And the White Man was feelin' at home once more. 

But Barrenness, Loneliness, suchlike things 

That gall and grate on the White Man's nerves, 

Was the rangers that camped by the bitter springs 
And guarded the lines of God's reserves. 

So the folks all shy from the desert land, 

'Cept mebbe a few that kin understand. 

There the world's the same as the day 'twas new, 
With the land as clean as the smokeless sky 

And never a noise as the years have flew. 
But the sound of the w^arm wind driftin' by; 

And there, alone, with the man's world far. 

There's a chance to think who you really are. 

And over the reach of the desert bare. 

When the sun drops low and the day wind stills, 

Sometimes you kin almost see Him there. 
As He sits alone on the blue-gray hills, 

A-thinkin' of things that's beyond our ken 

And restin' Himself from the noise of men. 



50 



THE MARRIED MAN 

There's an old pard of mine that sits by his door 

And watches the evenin' skies. 
He's sat there a thousand of evenin's before 

And I reckon he will till he dies. 
El pobre! I reckon he will till he dies, 

And hear through the dim, quiet air 
Far cattle that call and^ the crickets that cheep 
And his woman a-singin' a kid to sleep 

And the creak of her rockabye chair. 

Once we made camp where the last light would fail 

And the east wasn't white till we'd start, 
But now he is deaf to the call of the trail 

And the song of the restless heart. 
El pobre! the song of the restless heart 

That you hear in the wind from the dawn! 
He's left it, with all the good, free-footed things, 
For a slow little song that a tired woman sings 

And a smoke w^hen his dry day is gone. 

I've rode in and told him of lands that were strange, 
Where I'd drifted from glory to dread. 

He'd tell me the news of his little old range 
And the cute things his kids had said! 

El pobre ! the cute things his kids had said ! 

Note.— *'E1 pobre," Spanish, "Poor fellow." 
51 



And the way six-year Billy could ride! 
And the dark would creep in from the gray chap- 
arral 
And the woman would hum, w^hile I pitied my pal 

And thought of him like he had died. 

He rides in old circles and looks at old sights 

And his life is a^ flat as a pond. 
He loves the old skyline he watches of nights 

And he don't seem to care for beyond. 
El pobre! he don't seem to dream of beyond, 

Nor the room he could find, there, for joy. 
"Ain't you ever oneasy?" says I one day. 
But he only just smiled in a pityin' way 

While he braided a quirt for his boy. 

He preaches that I orter fold up my wings 

And that even wild geese find a nest. 
That "woman" and "wimmen" are different things 

And a saddle nap isn't a rest. 
El pobre! he's more for the shade and the rest 

And he's less for the wind and the fight, 
Yet out in strange hills, when the blue shadows rise 
And I'm tired from the wind and the sun in my 
eyes, 

I wonder, sometimes, if he's right. 



52 



I've courted the wind and I've followed her free 

From the snows that the low stars have kissed 
To the heave and the dip of the wavy old sea, 

Yet I reckon there's somethin' I've missed. 
El pobre ! Yes, mebbe there's somethin' I've missed, 

And it mebbe is more than I've won — 
Just a door that's my own, while the cool shadows 

creep. 
And a woman a-singin' my kid to sleep 

When I'm tired from the wind and the sun. 



53 



THE OLD COW MAN 

I rode across a valley range 

I hadn't seen for years. 
The trail was all so spoilt and strange 

It nearly fetched the tears. 
I had to let ten fences down 

(The fussy lanes ran wrong) 
And each new line would make me frown 

And hum a mournin' song. 

Oh, it's squeak! squeak! squeak! 

Hear 'em stretchin of the wire! 
The nester brand is on the land; 

I reckon Fll retire. 
While progress toots her brassy horn 

And makes her motor buzz, 
I thank the Lord I wasn't born 

No later than I was! 

'Twas good to live when all the sod, 

Without no fence nor fuss, 
Belonged in pardnership to God, 

The Gover'ment and us. 
With skyline bounds from east to west 

And room to go and come, 
I loved my fellow man the best 

When he was scattered some. 



54 







• 




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^ 


m^- • 




i^,-j 
k 





^ 1 

^ ^^. 






-^ ^ 

a ^ 






Oh, it's squeak! squeak! squeak! 

Close and closer cramps the wire. 
There's hardly play to back away 

And call a man a liar. 
Their house has locks on every door; 

Their land is in a crate. 
These ain't the plains of God no more. 

They're only real estate. 

There's land where yet no ditchers dig 

Nor cranks experiment; 
It's only lovely, free and big 

And isn't worth a cent. 
I pray that them who come to spoil 

May wait till I am dead 
Before they foul that blessed soil 

With fence and cabbage head. 

Yet it's squeak! squeak! squeak! 

Far and farther crawls the wire. 
To crowd and pinch another inch 

Is all their heart's desire. 
The world is overstocked with men 

And some will see the day 
When each must keep his little pen. 

But I'll be far away. 



55 



When my old soul hunts range and rest 

Beyond the last divide, 
Just plant me in some stretch of West 

That's sunny, lone and wide. 
Let cattle rub my tombstone down 

And coyotes mourn their kin, 
Let hawses paw and tromp the moun' 

But don't you fence it in ! 

Oh, it's squeak! squeak! squeak! 

And they pen the land with wire. 
They figure fence and copper cents 

Where we laughed Wound the fire. 
Job cussed his birthday , night and mornj 

In his old land of Uz, 
But Fm just glad I wasnt born 

No later than I was! 



56 



THE PLAINSMEN 

Men of the older, gentler soil, 

Loving the things that their fathers wrought — 
Worn old fields of their fathers' toil, 

Scarred old hills where their fathers fought — 
Loving their land for each ancient trace, 
Like a mother dear for her wrinkled face, 

Such as they never can understand 

The way we have loved you, young, young land ! 

Born of a free, world-wandering race. 
Little we yearned o'er an oft-turned sod. 

What did we care for the fathers' place, 
Having ours fresh from the hand of God? 

Who feared the strangeness or wiles of you 

When from the unreckoned miles of you. 
Thrilling the wind with a sweet command, 
Youth unto youth called, young, young land? 

North, where the hurrying seasons changed 

Over great gray plains where the trails lay long, 

Free as the sweeping Chinook we ranged, 
Setting our days to a saddle song. 

Through the icy challenge you flung to us, 

Through your shy Spring kisses that clung to us. 
Following far as the rainbow spanned, 
Fiercely we wooed you, young, young land ! 



57 



South, where the sullen black mountains guard 
Limitless, shimmering lands of the sun. 

Over blinding trails where the hoofs rang hard, 
Laughing or cursing, we rode and won. 

Drunk with the virgin white fire of you. 

Hotter than thirst was desire of you; 

Straight in our faces you burned your brand. 
Marking your chosen ones, young, young land. 

When did we long for the sheltered gloom 
Of the older game with its cautious odds? 

Gloried we always in sun and room, 

Spending our strength like the younger gods. 

By the wild sweet ardor that ran in us, 

By the pain that tested the man in us. 

By the shadowy springs and the glaring sand, 
You were our true-love, young, young land. 

When the last free trail is a prim, fenced lane 
And our graves grow weeds through forgetful 
Mays, 

Richer and statelier then you'll reign. 

Mother of men whom the world will praise. 

And your sons will love you and sigh for you, 

Labor and battle and die for you, 

But never the fondest will understand 

The way we have loved you, young, young land. 



58 







1 - 



« ^ 
w ^ 



=q 



^ 



THE WESTERNER 

My fathers sleep on the sunrise plains, 

And each one sleeps alone. 
Their trails may dim to the grass and rains, 

For I choose to make my own. 
I lay proud claim to their blood and name, 

But I lean on no dead kin; 
My name is mine, for the praise or scorn, 
And the world began when I was born 

And the world is mine to win. 

They built high towns on their old log sills, 

Where the great, slow rivers gleamed, 
But with new, live rock from the savage hills 

ril build as they only dreamed. 
The smoke scarce dies where the trail camp lies, 

Till the rails glint down the pass; 
The desert springs into fruit and wheat 
And I lay the stones of a solid street 

Over yesterday's untrod grass. 

I waste no thought on my neighbor's birth 

Or the way he makes his prayer. 
I grant him a white man's room on earth 

If his game is only square. 
While he plays it straight I'll call him mate; 

If he cheats I drop him flat. 
Old class and rank are a wornout lie, 
For all clean men are as good as I, 

And a king is only that. 
59 



